


The Life Before

by celestialcollectionaus19



Series: Thicker than Blood [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Blood, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Childhood, Class Issues, Crossover, Death, Detention, Gen, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss of Parent(s), Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Minor Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Foggy Nelson, POV Third Person, Panem, Parent-Child Relationship, Police Brutality, Poverty, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8905093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialcollectionaus19/pseuds/celestialcollectionaus19
Summary: A Foggy-centric fic on he and Mat's childhood. Set in Hunger Games' District 12. No Hunger Games characters. 
Before they were orphan brothers, Foggy Nelson and Mat Murdock were living happier lives - as happy as District Twelve can get, anyway. Foggy's parents were miners. Mat's dad was a miner turned Hob boxer. A chance meeting in detention leads to these two lives converging and then diverging again. But not for long...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know how to spell Matt Murdock. I figured I needed to Panem-ize it, though, so here we are. Mat Murdock sounds slightly more Whatever Century the Hunger Games are set in, at least to me. 
> 
> This fic can stand alone, but I am planning to write a continuation of it. Maybe. If I have time. There's not much Matt in this fic - sorry! - but he and other more central characters will be in the next fics in this series. I thought that Foggy would be a good starting point.

**The Life Before**

**.**

Bits and pieces. That’s all Foggy remembers from before.

**.**

**I.**

Seven is a victory.

 

Any child in District 12 who reaches their fifth birthday despite the starvation, the fevers, and the tainted air is almost always guaranteed to live to adulthood. If the factors mentioned above don’t kill them first. If the Hunger Games don’t get them first. Fifth birthdays are celebrated with the family looking to the immediate future almost optimistically. Foggy’s Ma and Pa did that too, with Willow. Until the whooping cough took her when she was seven. Now seven is their new five.

 

Foggy spends his seventh birthday playing in the streets of the Seam. School has just let out for the summer, and he and his friends are restless. Someone finds an old rubber tire in their yard. They roll around the tire, try to build a swing, race each other when they get bored of their new toy. They play and play until sundown, when their tired parents finally return from the mines. By then Foggy is covered in as much coal dust as his mother and father. Ma screams when she sees him, but he thinks that she is happy that he has enjoyed himself so much. The three of them go to the Hob for supper. Greasy Jos serves them her trademark stew, which probably contains mostly dog meat. Foggy doesn’t mind. Meat is meat, like Ma always says, and beggars can’t afford to be choosers.

 

They return home right before curfew. Ma and Pa offer him a small piece of goat cheese, which they must have traded heavily for. Foggy is so happy – he usually does not receive any gifts on his birthday. He eats half of the cheese and saves the rest for tomorrow. Later, as he lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to his mother endlessly cough, Foggy thinks to himself that seven can’t be that bad.

**.**

**II.**

“GET OUT!”

 

Foggy ducks down to dodge the bundles of rotten-smelling ham that his uncle throws at him. Stupid, he thinks as he blinks away tears, stupid, stupid, _stupid_. He should’ve never started asking his cousins for unsold meat about to go bad. He should’ve never believed that they would have stayed silent to protect him. He should’ve never trusted the children of a man who disowned his only living sister for daring to marry a coal miner.

 

He should have known. Hamlin usually slips the small parcels of meat to him behind the bushes at school, after classes. When his cousin failed to show up, Foggy should’ve realized that something was amiss. Stupid. He throws the rotten ham into his uncle’s yard and runs away before a Peacekeeper makes an example of him for damaging a merchant’s house. At least now he can stop lying to his parents about where he gets their occasional ham and sausages. Ma probably suspected already – how could she not, as the daughter of a butcher? A small part of him is relieved because she never talks to his uncle Trotter. She’ll never know how badly her own brother treated her son. Maybe it is better like this. Probably.

 

During supper, Pa wonders why there is no meat this week. Ma says something about constant food shortages, curses the Capitol under her breath. Grateful for this convenient coincidence, Foggy stays silent. His parents would be angry if they found out how he acquired this meat. Pa especially – Pa who hates charity, despises the Seam kids who creep into merchants’ yards for spoiled bread or vegetables or meats. “A man’s gotta have some dignity,” he always tells Foggy. “No dignity in eating others’ garbage.” No dignity in starving, either, the boy thinks, but of course he can’t say that to Pa. Foggy goes to bed hungry, a little sad, but relieved all the same.

 

The next morning, Foggy walks to school with Sloan and Otho from across the street. As usual. They kick around a ball in the schoolyard with the other boys until the teachers summon them for the daily raising of the Panem flag. As usual. Foggy is bored in class and scribbles in his workbooks. As usual. Classes finish at three o’clock, as usual, and Foggy dashes out of his classroom, through the hallway, and into the yard in record time. All as usual, until some kid grabs his shoulders and pushes him behind the trash bins.

 

Foggy feels his left cheek hit the concrete first, tastes the coppery metal tang of blood, and gasps a little as he touches his bloody face, his bruised wrists, his arms. He peers up to see his cousin Hamlin and two other merchant boys, Wylie and Fenn, grinning down at him. Foggy scrambles to his feet and tries to run, bloody cheek and all, but his cousin’s cronies block him. Wylie and Fenn are a year older than him, a head taller, with enough meat on their bones to feed all of the Seam’s hungry kids for at least a few months.

 

Hamlin pushes up his face into Foggy’s. “That’s for taking our food,” the butcher’s son says, jabbing his finger into his cousin’s bleeding cheek. “You little Seam rat! You think that you can take what’s ours just because of your ma, huh? You think that we’re family?” His voice quivers audibly, and for one small moment he looks scared. Foggy wonders if he got beaten for swiping nearly rotten meat from the butcher shop and almost feels sorry for him. Then Hamlin regains his composure and starts smirking at him, and Foggy realizes that this is not the time to feel sympathetic. Images of Seam kids being jumped by merchant kids over the years rush to his mind, and he swears, he _swears_ he can feel his blood literally boiling.

 

So Foggy punches his cousin.

 

All hell breaks loose. Wylie grabs him and tries to throw him into a garbage can. Hamlin tries to stop his friends, shouting that this shouldn’t get out of hand. A teacher sees the four of them screaming at each other and drags them all to the principal’s office. Three blond merchant boys are louder and more credible than one blond Seam boy, it seems. Principal Maverick gives Foggy a detention for the next day. “Fighting isn’t tolerated here,” he says sternly. “You know that.”

 

Foggy wants to chase after Hamlin and his friends, give them an actual beating this time, but they’ve already been allowed to leave. _This isn’t fair_ , he wants to scream. _You only let them go because all of you are from the same part of town! Because you hate us for being worse off than you!_ Foggy wants to destroy every piece of furniture in Maverick’s office, tear up all of his papers, and steal whatever he can get his hands on. But he can’t, he won’t, because he’s from the Seam and they’re from town – so he sits there and cries until Ma rushes in to pick him up.

**.**

Detention is not what Foggy expects.

 

It’s worse.

 

Mrs. Tate assigns Foggy and three other Seam kids to clean the indoor bathrooms. Because of the scarcity of electricity and functional indoor plumbing throughout District 12, the latrines are favoured over the bathrooms, which are closed during most of the fall and spring. One would think that the more occasional use would make the bathrooms smell better. No such luck – the stench is so bad that Foggy and his fellow students are told beforehand to wear scarves over their noses and mouths. Their teacher decides to sit outside and read a book instead of supervising the boys and girls inside their respective bathrooms like she is supposed to.

 

“What’re you in for?” Foggy asks the other Seam boy as they try to figure out how to use the mop and bucket of soapy water that the school has provided them with.

 

Like most Seam kids, the boy is small and skinny for their age. His name is Mat, Foggy remembers. Though they are in the same grade and even live a few houses apart at best, they have never spoken to each other in all of their eight years. “I got into a fight,” Mat says, almost hanging his head in shame.

 

“Me too!” Foggy grins at him. “Your fault or theirs?”

 

Mat shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have done it anyways,” he says as he pushes the mop back and forth across the floor. Foggy wants to laugh. The mop is half of a head taller than Mat and heavy enough to look like it could knock him over. And Mat’s holey gray scarf is slipping lower and lower with every push. “Now my dad is mad at me.”

 

Foggy racks his mind for an image of this boy’s father. What is Mat’s last name? Myers? Mason? “Murdock!” Foggy exclaims after a few moments of silence. “You’re Mat Murdock, yeah? Your dad is Battlin’ Jack Murdock! The Hob boxer!”

 

“Yeah,” says Mat, suddenly standing up taller and prouder. He smiles. “You’ve seen him fight before?”

 

“No. But I want to!” Pa goes to nearly every one of Jack’s matches. Foggy wanted to accompany him to the last one, but Ma thought that he wasn’t old enough. And more importantly, it was past his bedtime. “Your dad is so cool! I wish he was my dad.” He takes the mop from Mat and moves to the back of the bathroom with the bucket. “Hey, you should come over sometime. I’m sure Pa would love to meet you and your dad.”

 

Mat grins, blushing a little. “Really?”

 

After the detention ends, Foggy sees Mat around at school from time to time. They stay with their respective friends at recess and in their different classes, and the plan to have their families meet never comes to fruition. Foggy notices that the other boy spends much of his time in the tiny school library. It’s uncommon for a Seam kid to read so many books. Even stranger, Foggy reflects, that the bookworm would be the boxer-slash-miner’s son.

 

Foggy is nine years old when the entire district hears about Mat Murdock. The boy who saves the old man from the truck. The Seam hero. The boy with the heart of gold whose odds were decidedly not in his favor. At home, Pa gives his two cents on the situation. “That Murdock boy was very stupid,” he tells Foggy. “He’s not gonna survive very long in this place, blind like he is.” He blows out the last candle in the house. “This is exactly why you should never play at being a hero.”

 

Some part of Foggy agrees with his father. Heroes belonged in the world before the disasters, back when ordinary folks could still hold on to hope. Not District 12, and especially not the Seam, where Foggy witnessed a neighboring family slowly starve to death during one particularly harsh winter. What can heroes do, anyway, in the country that sent Ma’s thirteen-year-old sister to fight and die in a strange city far away from everything that she ever knew?

 

**.**

**III.**

After the accident, District 12 goes through a mild summer, a rainy fall, an unusually cold winter. At the first snow, Foggy and Sloan and Otho and the others manage to roll up a few muddy snowballs before the white powder melts. Later, it gets so cold that Foggy’s fingers are frozen solid even inside the house, even next to the fire. Snow falls so heavily in the ensuing storm that the mines close for a few days. Pa’s no fool and decides to invite some buddies over for drinks – namely, his own murky brew. Someone brings their fiddle. Ma and Pa sing together, and their friends join them, while Foggy and the kids tap their feet to the rhythm of the song. The stew is one of Pa’s disgusting concoctions, but it’s warm and savoury, and that is somehow enough for one wintery night. Foggy falls asleep before all of the guests leave, and when he opens his eyes again the spell is already broken.  

 

Spring. Another summer, this one much hotter than the last. Foggy is eleven years old now, a year away from the Reaping. He watches as older kids start picking fights in the streets, as his twelve-year-old friends break down in tears, as his neighbor Clay calculates his odds of being reaped with all of his tesserae. This year’s Reaping is barely two weeks away. Pa feels bad, Foggy can tell by how nice he suddenly is, and announces a surprise. Ma seems to know what is going on, but refuses to breathe a word about it to her son. “You’ll see,” she says. “Have patience, son, you’ll need that in the mines when you’re older.” Foggy imagines the surprise. Real bread? Fresh meat? He dreams of a feast, sweet berries, shoes that aren’t falling apart – all of which are frankly ridiculous and about as likely as him winning the Hunger Games. Ma and Pa would not be able to afford any of these. Foggy knows this, knows that he isn’t one of those well-to-do town kids, even if they share the same hair and eyes. Even if his mother was one of them long ago, before she married a coal miner and became one herself and had a son who will probably go down into the mines too.

 

Night falls. Pa and Foggy walk through a sleepy Seam with only the faint light of their old lamp as a guide. It’s close to curfew, and Foggy begins growing sick at the thought of being stopped by Peacekeepers. Pa tells him not to worry – oddly out of character. Soon Foggy sees a strangely alive Hob looming in the distance. Looks around, spots other miners and their children walking in the same destination. Pa greets a few friends and distant cousins. As far as Foggy can tell, everyone is Seam except for some Peacekeepers who stand impassively at the doors. There’s a crowd in the old warehouse, but Foggy is too short to see what for. He does hear the cheering, however – BATTLIN’ JACK! BATTLIN’ JACK! – and feels his mouth split into a wide grin.

 

“You finally brought me to a match!” he shouts, leaping up to give Pa a hug. “I never thought you’d do it! Can you lift me up?”

 

Grinning ear-to-ear, Pa obliges. Foggy catches a short glimpse of a tall, well-built man in a red uniform and sweaty old boxing gloves. His huge opponent’s bald head gleams even in the dim oil lamps and candlelight. Even if the men haven’t started fighting yet, the people of the Seam standing beneath them are going crazy – cheering so loud that Foggy fears that his eardrums will shatter, toasting their friends left and right, making bets on the ultimate winner.

 

“They’re calling it the fight of the century,” Pa tells Foggy after he has put him them. “Creel vs. Murdock. I’ve got my bet on Murdock. Reliable, honest fellow. Much more principled than Creel, I think.” He grabs a beer from Greasy Jos, who is passing with a tray of various beers and spirits, and gives her one crumpled-up bill in exchange. “Thanks, Jos. What’s your take?”

 

She laughs. “What do I care? I’m getting my share anyway,” she says with a grin, pointing at the dirty bottles on her tray. She lowers her voice. “But personally, I’m rooting for Jack. We were in the same year, back in the day. Good guy. Nice of him to care for his kid by himself after his wife left, too.” _I wonder if Mat’s here too_ , Foggy wonders. _He was so proud of Jack_. Jos turns to Foggy. “Hey, kid, you should stand on that chair over there. You might actually see something.” She moves past Pa and Foggy and disappears into the crowd, in search of other buyers.

 

Foggy follows her advice just in time for the beginning of the match. Jos was right – he does have a great view up here. He looks down to Pa and gives him a little wave to show that everything is all right. Creel in all of his hulking glory seems to be winning at first; Foggy and the rest of the Seam, and a lot of the rest of District 12, watch worriedly as Battlin’ Jack is beaten down again and again. “He’s getting bloodier and bloodier, every time he gets up,” remarks Greasy Jos as she passes with another round of drinks. “Tough luck.” Pa is too absorbed in the game to comment. Foggy shields his eyes from time to time, finding all of the blood difficult to stomach.

 

Then, ten minutes into the game, the perfect miracle happens – Jack Murdock gets up and _stays_ up. The crowd goes crazy as he beats a man nearly twice his size into a corner, as Creel spits blood at his suddenly vicious opponent, as the giant falls to the ground in a bloodied heap and someone declares Battlin’ Jack Murdock the victor. Foggy stares as Peacekeepers rush to the stage to help down Creel. He had expected his first boxing match to be thrilling, exhilarating, maybe a little violent – but in a good way. Not like this. Not so bloody. Not so much like the Hunger Games, where he watches two kids from Twelve get slain each year in the most horrific ways.

 

Pa helps Foggy down from his chair. “Can’t go wrong with Battlin’ Jack,” he says jovially. “Nice guy, you know. Not so scary in real life. I worked with his unit once.” He scratches his chin. “Though come to think of it, I’ve met Creel a few times too. Can’t blame everyone for not supporting him; he’s a shifty kind of guy. Did I ever tell you about-” Pa is interrupted by the sight of his friend. “Clemons! How’s it going?”

 

“Hey, Nelson. Foggy.” Clemons nods and takes a swig of his beer. “I can’t say I’m surprised in any way,” he says. “Always knew Battlin’ Jack would win big someday.”

 

“You always do have the best hunches,” Pa says. He wraps an arm around Foggy’s shoulders. “Watch and learn, kid. That’s gonna be important when you’re older.”

 

Clemons waves him off. “I’m more surprised that they’ve let this go on for so long,” he says so quietly that only Pa and Foggy can understand him. He gestures to the Peacekeepers who have successfully directed Hob patrons into scrubbing off the blood from the ring. “Seems like the perfect recipe for rebellion. Giving people all of these fighting ideas. Not good.”

 

Pa clears his throat, looking around for signs that others may have overheard his friend. “Let’s just enjoy the fun while it lasts,” he says at last.

 

“I heard it was Sweeney who started all of this. I’m telling you, Pierce, there’s something more sinister behind this. The man does not have good intentions.”

 

Pa shakes his head and glances towards Foggy, who is pretending to be captivated by the miners leaving the Hob. “I don’t know, Clemons,” he says in a low voice. “Let’s discuss it at work tomorrow. Me and the kid gotta go home soon.”

 

Clemons nods soberly. “Yeah, okay. Goodnight. You too, son.” He looks at Foggy and strolls away, his hand in his pocket, his head down. On the way out, the Peacekeeper in place stops him to pat him down, knock away his beer bottle, and sneer.

 

“I guess their goodwill only extends so far,” mutters Pa before pulling Foggy away.

 

**.**

When Foggy tells his story later on, this is where he stops. The night of the match between Battlin’ Jack and Creel. The last boxing match in District 12.

 

The point of no return.

 

**.**

**IV.**

A few days after Battlin’ Jack’s victory, Foggy wakes up at the crack of dawn. It’s so early that his parents are still at home, lacing up their boots and finishing up their breakfast. He briefly ponders rolling over and going back to sleep, but then realizes that this would be useless. The birds are already cawing away outside, and in less than an hour the streets of the Seam will come to life with the thunderous migration of locals heading to the mines. Not to mention the soon-to-be boiling heat and the bright sun already seeping through the shutters. Foggy stares up at the ceiling. Yesterday Sloan and Otho and Clay and the others were talking about capturing a stray cat roaming around the Seam in order to roast it and sell its fur. They change plans often, though, and Foggy hopes that this will be the case today. He feeds the cat rotten scraps from time to time, and one side of him would be sad to see it go. The other side just wants to eat. They could get good food for that cat’s pelt and from the cat itself. Good food not obtainable by other means.

 

On the other side of the room, Ma and Pa are still talking to each other as they wait for the water to boil. Foggy listens half-heartedly, his eyes half-closed, his body curled up towards them. “I don’t know what the hell got into Sweeney,” says his mother. “Goldy and Rae from my unit – you know them, right – they’ve been telling me the worst stories. Apparently Sweeney’s been bringing back flogging for the most minor offences. There were some kids carving their initials into a tree next to the market, and he went crazy. Made them stand up against a wall and flogged them until they had to be carried out! Rae’s oldest saw it, and she was terrified.” Ma turns to glance at Foggy, who had the foresight to close his eyes completely and mimic sleeping.

 

Pa sighs. “Something’s ticked him off,” he says. “I can feel it. There’s this tension – I can’t really explain. But the Peacekeepers haven’t flogged anyone in ages.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. Like they always do. Ma’s advice to Foggy’s younger self plays in his mind – _You can never know who’s listening_ , _so it’s best if you stay silent_. _Trust nobody. Don’t talk about the Capitol, don’t ever talk about politics. Smile at the Peacekeepers. Never try to resist them because they could **end** you. _ “Me and Clemons have been talking. He’s heard things. Says it could’ve been the boxing match.”

 

“The one you took our son to? Pierce, I told you it was a bad idea. _I told you_. The whole premise seemed too good to be true.” Ma doesn’t even sound angry, just resigned. “You know what I think? One of Sweeney’s higher-ups realizes that there’s another form of entertainment in Twelve, something other than the Hunger Games. Threatens to fire him and execute him for treason, because this is exactly what you don’t want. So Sweeney doubles down on everyone in District 12 so he can keep his job – and his head.” Foggy opens his eyes to see his mother forlornly shake her head. “Next he’ll be targeting the boxers. I wonder if Jack knows.”

 

Pa looks as defeated as Foggy’s ever seen him. “They’ll do it publicly,” he says. “They’ll make all of us watch, no question.” The kettle whistles; steam curls out of its beak. Pa pours the boiling water into two cups. “Jack should’ve never gotten involved with them.”

 

“Who said it was his choice?” Ma blows on her steaming cup. “Either way, we need to talk to Foggy, tell him to be careful. He’s a good kid, but some of the other kids around here get into trouble. I don’t want him tangled up in any of this.”

 

“Agreed.” A buzzer sounds from outside. Foggy, like every resident of Twelve, recognizes it as the first call to the mines. Six o’clock. Work officially starts at seven for most miners, but Ma and Pa like to arrive early. “We should go now,” says Pa wearily, finishing his cup of hot water. “Let’s talk to him when we get back home.”

 

His parents leave soon afterwards. Foggy slips in and out of consciousness for the next half hour, only getting up when the second buzzer – signaling six-thirty – resonates through the district. Breakfast: a handful of blackberries, half of a bread roll (the only food remaining in the house). Ma promised last night that she’d bring home Capitol grain and meat rations; vegetables from her childhood friend, the grocer; and whatever she and Pa can find at the Hob. Foggy’s mouth waters at the thought of all that food. His stomach rumbles. He thinks about the dandelions that have sprouted up amongst the grass everywhere in District 12, makes a mental note to take a detour at the end of the day so that they can have dandelion salad with everything else. For a brief moment Foggy regrets his inability to sign up for tesserae. Ma and Pa will put up a fierce fight if he ever suggests it next year. Might not even let him take the extra grain and oil for the family. But he wants to help in any way possible. He cannot stand idly anymore, cannot bear watching as his mother and father starve a little more each day for him to eat better. He’ll be in the reaping anyway – what’s one, two, three more slips among thousands? Ten more slips?

 

Seven o’clock. The final buzzer sounds; a few stragglers run towards the mines. Children free of their parents spill out of their houses and into the streets of the Seam; elders, which Foggy can count on one hand, take their customary places on the porches or at their windows. Clay’s triangular face and large gray eyes appear in Foggy’s window. “You coming?”

 

Foggy joins him outside. “Where’re we going?” he asks, running a hand through the sandy hair that has always made him stand out like a sore thumb in the Seam. He and two girls are the only Seam kids with blond hair in his area. Foggy hated it when he was younger, especially since the other kids would make fun of his hair color and jokingly tell him to play with the merchants. Now? Not so much, but it really would be simpler if he looked like everyone.

 

“Let’s go to the schoolyard,” suggests Clay as more and more boys – and the odd girl – step into the circle of kids. “There’s lots of space there, and no one will yell at us for going on their property.”

 

“Mr. Maverick’s gonna see us, and we’ll all have detention next year,” points out Brett, who has beaten Foggy again and again at hide-and-seek and doesn’t hesitate to rub it in whenever he sees him. Other kids nod in agreement. Foggy secretly agrees, but stays silent because it’s Brett and he’s not going to give him the satisfaction.

 

Clay’s mouth twitches. “Well, you have a better idea, Mahoney?” he says, tilting his head and glowering at the younger boy. “Because I don’t hear one.”

 

Brett holds up his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Calm down, Beaker.”

 

“Or what?” Clay says, hands balled up into fists.

 

Foggy grows more and more uncomfortable with this open animosity. Clay never used to be like this, he thinks; it’s the Reaping talking; his friend is freaked out by the possibility of being selected to fight to the death on live television. Foggy wishes he could fix this, but he can’t, so he does the next best thing – he steps in between the two boys.

 

“Hey, guys?” he says. “Uh, we don’t need to fight.”

 

Clay turns on him, his fists loosening a little, his face still reddish. “Who said anything about fighting?” he huffs. He scowls at both Foggy and Brett and then runs off with his closest friends, leaving a smaller, tenser group behind.

 

“Wow.” Brett raises his eyebrows. “I owe you something now, Nelson?”

 

Foggy grins. “I guess we’re even now, Brett,” he replies, pointedly using his – friendly! – rival’s first name. The two of them stand together to assess the remaining group – Sloan and Otho, a few kids from their grade, two or three younger siblings who have tagged along. Clay took most of the louder older kids with him, and Foggy actually feels grateful. Today is not a good day to explore the district and get in trouble, at least not according to what he heard during the eavesdropping done earlier this morning.

 

“Maybe we should just stay here,” Brett says, after a beat of silence. “At least there’s less Peacekeepers than in town.”

 

Foggy wonders if Brett has heard about the Peacekeepers’ newly increased brutality, if he has heard in the same way as all of them children do – straining to hear the whispers coming from their parents’ hunched backs, and then regretting the eavesdropping immediately after the truth really sinks in. Foggy briefly considers asking his friend, but his mother’s voice rings through his mind: “Trust nobody”. Trust nobody, not even your friends, her words seem to imply. But then what is the use of having friends?

 

After a long deliberation, they end up deciding to stay in the Seam. Sloan and Otho lead everyone else to their yard, where they show off the shack that they’ve started to build with spare wood. The kids chase each other around. Foggy manages to sneak off long enough to pick a handful of dandelions for tonight’s supper. Near midday, exhausted and starving, he and the others sit on the side of the road and watch as two solemn-faced men carry a dead father out of a nearby house. The widow is staring into the distance, arms crossed, while her young children cling to her out of fear and confusion.

 

“Collie was a good guy,” says Brett, sighing. “Used to give me a coin or two when he saw that I was really hungry.” Foggy remembers a kind miner who was always whistling a tune on the way home from work – until he grew too sick and too frail to work, that is. 

 

All of them stand up with their heads bowed as the men pass by.

 

“Anyone has food to share?” Sloan asks, breaking the silence.  

 

Pike, who lives two houses across from Foggy, spits onto the ground. “Does this look like the Capitol to you?” he says, scowling.

 

Foggy stiffens up, keeps his face blank. _Stay silent._ He has never heard or said anything. He is innocent and intends to stay that way. When he looks over at Brett, Foggy sees the same look in the other boy’s eye. Sloan doesn’t bother responding to Pike.

 

“We should probably go home,” says Foggy after enough awkward, fearful silence has passed. “Let’s meet up again later, yeah?”

 

The kids all nod, but Foggy is certain that most of them won’t come out in the afternoon. There is food to be found, chores to be done. Sloan and Otho wave at Foggy as they part ways, and Brett gives him a conciliatory nod. At midday, the streets are empty and deserted, with even the elderly having left their spots on the porches. Foggy walks home with his head down and a heavy heart, not looking forward to the lack of food and the talk that his parents will give him once they come home from work.

 

Turns out that he is wrong to worry about the talk.

 

He is wrong to worry because, at 4:21 PM, there is an explosion in the mines. Dozens go missing, including Foggy, and Clay, and Pike’s parents. At nightfall, the children and relatives of the missing gather at the town square. For updates on the situation, they are told. Foggy goes to the meeting alone and squeezes his way to the front of the crowd.

 

“… And the names of the fallen,” the mayor says. “We know some already…”

 

Foggy closes his eyes.

 

The mayor wipes his forehead with a handkerchief and clears his throat. Names Clay’s parents. Pike’s parents. Sloan and Otho’s older brother and sister. Brett’s uncle. Clemons. Jack Murdock. _At least they didn’t execute him_ , he thinks. (Foggy was young.)

 

Foggy closes his eyes. 

 

“Pierce and Venny Nelson,” the mayor announces.

 

The end of the world is not one massive explosion. The end of the world is one little eleven-year-old being left with nobody at all. 

 

**.**

Bits and pieces. Maybe it would be easier for him to forget.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to check out my Tumblr, @celestialcollectionaus.


End file.
